The Meager Man
by atlaswhite
Summary: The night was long and dreadfully cold- but then, it seemed that every night was these days. And Lemony Snicket, a man on the run, wished that he was not quite so very much alone. Lemony/Beatrice


_Lemony Snicket - The Meager Man_

The night was very long and dreadfully cold- but then, it seemed that every night was these days. Especially so for a lonesome man on the run, and through a series of most unfortunate events, Lemony Snicket had become just that. Presently, he found himself deep within a department store warehouse, where an associate had promised he would find a hiding place beneath the floorboards nearest the stairs. He wasn't even sure how trustworthy this associate was, since he realized now there was a definite chance he'd been speaking to Ernest and not Frank.

It felt very much wrong to him, but having no alternative, a phrase here meaning "he would most likely starve if he didn't", he paused on his way to the hiding place to search briskly through several boxes for supplies, and found a number of sharp-looking utensils, bags of bird seed, odd-looking appliances, a crate full of very small radio sets, batteries too small to fit most anything, heavy drapes, arm-length gloves, some rather unappetizing candy bars, neat stacks of magazines tied with twine, various art supplies, a xylophone, and a box of frilly, lacy things to be worn by ladies in private, the nature of which you can likely guess.

Lemony drew back his hand from this last box, then sighed; he had always been shy of those things, and he remembered with a twinge how a woman he loved very much found that terribly funny and would laugh her beautiful laugh whenever he got squirmy because of them.

He didn't get much further than that, because in his moment of reverie, a word here meaning "distracting himself thinking about nicer times that were long gone", his pursuers had begun to storm the warehouse. He could hear them coming, their heavy boots and loud shouting a dead giveaway as they approached. He had no time to lose.

Lemony had just enough time to get under the floorboards with a few of those unappetizing candy bars before they'd forced their way in. And he stayed there, anxious and suddenly seized with the fear that it had been Ernest who had told him to hide here, and that his pursuers would know exactly where he was now, leaving him trapped and helpless instead of hidden and relatively safe for the moment.

He found himself willing his pursuers away from his hiding place as if he had some psychic power over them, but if he'd had any sort of power he would have used it to prove himself innocent of the crimes of which he'd been accused, or better yet, to prevent any of them from happening in the first place!

But finally, thankfully, the sounds of heavy boots and men and women shouting faded away as they went in search of other places Lemony Snicket might be hiding, and he gave a near-silent sigh of relief.

He was alone now, and exhausted. They wouldn't think to come back and look here again. This was probably the only chance he'd get to sleep, at least for an hour or so, because otherwise he probably wasn't going to make it. He was simply too exhausted to carry on. And he had to stay free, had to stay alive, because it was his duty, he'd sworn it, to make sure the Baudelaire story was told. And hopefully, prove he hadn't committed arson, murder, and an assortment of other villainous pastimes while he was at it.

So he ate his unappetizing candy bar, which turned out to be as foul-tasting as he'd expected, and tried to get some sleep.

It was terribly cold and uncomfortable down here, and he had trouble getting to sleep. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, but it was still racing. He had learned so much, yet he felt like he'd accomplished precious little. And in the stillness, he found he was thinking of _her_ again, all because of those frilly, lacy things in the box- and not for any reason other than the way she had laughed at him for getting squeamish at that clothing store because there had been a whole wall of them all looking down at him as he and she had hidden together in a rack of tasteful coats.

But Lemony would give anything to be there again, with all the frilly, lacy things making him uncomfortable, instead of the cold and the tiny space and the hard, hard ground beneath him, and that was the thought that he settled on as he tried very hard to sleep.

Sometime during the night, he felt a touch on his shoulder, and was startled by the face of a beautiful woman looking down at him. She smiled, stroking his face with the backs of her slender fingers, and he nuzzled into the touch much like a cat would, his eyes half-lidded.

"Beatrice," Lemony whispered.

Her smile was distant and mysterious, and he found he could scarcely feel her touch, like a warm mist against his skin. It was as if she was there, and yet very, very far away at the same time.

Lemony closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. He could swear that he heard her voice, whispering his name. And he was very much aware of Beatrice sitting gracefully on the ground next to him, stroking his hair now with that touch he almost couldn't feel, that touch that meant the whole world to him.

And beneath her touch, he remembered happier times, long ago, when everything seemed so right and fires were fought, the libraries stood proud, _The Daily Punctilio_ hadn't printed that fateful article- a phrase here meaning "completely false claims leading to terrible assumptions about Lemony's death that ruined his life"- and she and he were engaged to be married.

He remembered a time when she touched his face, and laughed at his silly hang-ups about frilly, lacy things, and knelt next to him like this on warm summer days, when they would share picnics or read together in the most blissful of peace. He remembered a time when they stayed together, made love together, and when he woke up each morning, she would be there next to him, already awake and smiling that beautiful, perfect smile. The smile he'd lived for.

If only life were so simple. If only he could see that smile again. If only she would be there when he woke up now, even huddled together with him in this distressing hiding place. If only he wasn't hiding, cold and alone beneath the floorboards of a depressingly lonesome department store warehouse. If only he could forget about his harsh reality just long enough to enjoy the moment, the dream, the image of Beatrice and her spectral- a word which here means, "ghost-like, and not real"- touch. If only she weren't gone. If only, if only, if only.


End file.
